The Diplomat's Wife (38 page)

“P
aul!” I kneel beside him, touching his blood-soaked shirt. His eyes are half open, his breathing weak.
Oh, God.
I have to get him out of the cold and out of sight. About twenty meters down the length of the boat there is a doorway. I do not know what is inside, but it has to be better than staying exposed on the open deck, waiting for someone to find us. “Paul, can you hear me?” He grunts. “I need your help. We can’t stay here and I can’t carry you. Can you move?”

He does not answer. I take his right arm and wrap it around my neck, then put my left arm around his waist. Taking a deep breath, I try to raise him to a standing position. But he remains limp, too heavy to lift. I shake him hard. “Paul, listen, I know you’re hurt. But I need you to help me, just for a few minutes. On the count of three. One, two…” Using all of my strength, I struggle to stand up again with him. This time, I feel a slight movement in his legs, his whole body trembling with the effort as he helps me to raise him. How badly is he hurt? I wonder. Panic rises within me as I drag him to the doorway.

Leaning Paul against the side of the ship for support, I open the door and roll him around the edge of the door frame. We are inside a stairwell, with one set of stairs leading up, one down. Above us I hear voices speaking in German. “Paul, downstairs, quickly,” I whisper. I do not know if there are more sailors below, but I have to chance it. He blinks, seeming to revive slightly. I help him down one flight of stairs, then another. We reach the bottom of the ship, and I blink to adjust my eyes. The cavernous hull seems to run endlessly into the darkness, filled with crates and boxes piled high to the ceiling. I inhale the damp air, which smells of wet wood and burlap. Hopefully no one will come down here until we reach England and they are ready to unload.

Beside me Paul wobbles. He cannot last much longer on his feet. I help him farther into the hull, finding a narrow path through the piles of crates. Soon we reach a small clearing where three stacks of boxes seem to form an alcove against the wall of the ship. “Let’s rest here,” I suggest. Paul does not respond but lets me help him to the ground. I gather some empty burlap sacks that lie nearby, propping them against the wall to form a makeshift pillow behind him. “Now, let me see your wound.”

“I’m okay,” he says, breathing heavily.

Lifting his shirt, I gasp. His lower torso is bathed in thick, fresh blood. I have to stop the bleeding. I look around desperately for something to use as a bandage. Then I remember the gauze Paul used to tape my foot. “Do you have more gauze?” I ask him. He does not answer. I move up to study his face. His eyes are half open and his face is pale. It must be the blood loss. “Paul,” I say. He does not respond.

I reach over and open his pocket. Inside, I push aside his pocketknife and some soggy crumpled papers. At the bottom, I see a small photograph. Curious, I pull it out. It is a picture of me and Paul, the one taken in Paris the night he proposed. I stare at the picture, stunned. How could he possibly still have this, after everything he had been through?

I put the photo down beside him, then check his other pocket for gauze but find none. Desperately, I unwind the piece that Paul had used to wrap my ankle, now black with dirt. I cannot put this near his wound without risking infection. I reach around to his back pocket and pull out the flask, but it is empty. I look up at the crates that fill the hull. There has to be something here that can help. Standing up, I scramble through the boxes, trying to read the labels in the near darkness. A familiar word catches my eye:
Zyborowa.
Polish vodka! Quickly, I try to open the crate but it is sealed shut. I race back to where Paul lies, pulling the pocketknife from his jacket and carrying it back to the crate. I work at the seal with the knife, then use it as a lever to open the box. Inside there are dozens of bottles of vodka, cushioned in straw. I take one, opening the top as I carry it back to Paul.

I kneel beside him once more. Dousing the gauze in vodka, I use it to wipe the blood from Paul’s wound. I touch his skin lightly, studying the site. The bullet pierced his midsection, slightly to the left. It is almost the exact spot where my own gunshot wound was. He groans as I lift him slightly to study his lower back. “Sorry,” I say. There is a neat hole where the bullet exited. But as I set him down again, the blood pours fresh from the front of his torso. I have to dress the wound, try to stop the bleeding. I pick up the bottle of vodka and rinse the now-red gauze once more. Then I lean over and put my head next to his ear. “This is going to hurt,” I whisper, “but it’s for your own good.” I put my hand over his mouth so that he does not attract attention if he screams. Taking a deep breath, I pour the vodka directly onto his wound to clean it. He cries out weakly. I wrap the gauze around his midsection as tightly as I can, tucking in the end.

I study the dressing. Blood is already beginning to seep through the gauze, but it will have to do. I pull his shirt down over the wound, then touch his forehead, which is burning hot and covered with a fine layer of perspiration. My panic grows. There has to be something else I can do. Suddenly, I remember the canteen he had been carrying. Praying that it is still there, I reach around to the far side of his waist, careful not to touch the wound. Relief washes over me as my hand closes around the canteen. There is only a tiny bit of water left, I note as I shake it. Paul would tell me to save the water, that we will need it later in the journey. But if I don’t bring his fever down, there might not be a later.

“Paul,” I say. There is no response. I shake him and repeat his name, louder this time. He grunts, as though being awoken from a deep sleep. Carefully, I fill the cap of the canteen with water. Cupping his head and lifting it, I bring the water to his lips. The same way he did with me in the prison, I think. But there is no time for nostalgia. I pour a few drops of the water into his mouth. “Swallow,” I implore. He does not respond, and a second later, the water trickles out of the corner of his mouth. Desperately, I tilt his head back slightly, pouring the rest of the capful of water through his barely parted lips. “Drink.” This time, his Adam’s apple moves slightly and the water does not reappear. Picking up the canteen again, I pour a few of the remaining drops of water on my hand, then rub Paul’s forehead to cool it.

I replace the cap on the canteen, studying his face again. There is nothing more to be done. He shivers. I crawl across the ground, grabbing some more of the burlap sacks and dragging them back over to Paul. I lie down beside him and pull the sacks over us for warmth. Then I place my head on his chest and close my eyes, willing the ship to sail more quickly toward Britain. A few hours ago, I dreaded reaching our destination, knowing that upon arrival we would be forced to say goodbye. But now, reaching land and getting medical attention, if it is not too late, is Paul’s only hope. I’m not going to lose you again, I think, wrapping my arm around him protectively.

My eyes grow heavy with the gentle rocking of the ship. I should stay awake, I think. But it does not matter anymore. If someone discovers us, it will not matter if we are asleep. We have done everything we can. Everything we set out to do. Now it is only a question of whether or not we make it back alive to deliver the cipher. Clinging tightly to Paul, I drift off to sleep.

Sometime later, feeling Paul move, I awaken. I sit up quickly, studying his face. His eyes are open slightly. “Can you hear me?” I ask. He nods. “How are you feeling?”

“It hurts,” he replies matter-of-factly. “It hurts a lot.”

“I know.” I touch his forehead, which feels hotter than before. Then I reach for the canteen.

He raises his hand slightly. “Save it.”

“Paul, you’re burning up. I’ll find more water later.”

He does not answer but lets me bring the canteen cap to his lips, grimacing as he swallows. I remember then how in prison, I tried to forget pain by pretending I was somewhere else, was back in my family home in the village, or at Shabbat dinner with my friends in the ghetto. “Let’s pretend we’re not here,” I suggest. “Remember the night in Salzburg, how we stayed up in the gardener’s shed talking, listening to the rain?”

He manages a faint smile. “That was wonderful. So quiet after all the months of fighting, I thought I had died and gone to heaven.” Then his expression grows serious again. “The whole war, I managed not to get shot. And now…” He lifts his hand slightly in the direction of his wound.

“This is all because of me,” I say. “You never would have been here otherwise. I’m so sorry.”

“It was worth it,” he replies quickly. “I love you, Marta.”

“I love you, too. But when I saw the port guards pull you from the truck and heard the shots, I thought…”

“That you lost me again?” Paul finishes for me. I nod, suddenly overcome with all that has happened. My eyes well. “Nah, you won’t get rid of me that easily. They were about to cuff me and then I would have been sunk,” he adds. “But I was able to slip out of my coat and grab the gun of the one who was holding me. I shot him, wounded the other two.” His voice cracks, as much from the memory of shooting the men as the effort of speaking. I see in his eyes the same remorse as I had in the Berlin police station, looking down at Hart’s body. Killing did not come easily to Paul, even when it was to save his life.

Or mine.

“I love you,” I repeat, lowering my lips to his, wanting to take away his pain.

“Me, too. I do wish you hadn’t moved on quite so quickly, though.” He tries to sound light, but there is a seriousness to his expression that belies his pain.

I know then that I have to tell him. I take a deep breath. “I didn’t.”

Paul looks up at me. “I don’t understand. Didn’t what?”

I hesitate. Telling Paul will change everything. But he needs to know the truth in case…I shudder. The thought is almost too unbearable to finish. But if something happens to him, I want him to know. “I didn’t move on,” I say at last.

Paul’s expression is puzzled. “But you married your husband so quickly…”

“I didn’t marry Simon because of my feelings for him, or because I had forgotten you. I married Simon because I was pregnant.”

“But you wouldn’t have slept with him if…” Paul’s voice trails off and a light of recognition appears in his eyes. “You didn’t, did you?”

“Sleep with him? No. Not until we were married.”

“So the baby…?”

I nod. “Rachel is your daughter. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner,” I add.

I watch his face as he processes the information. Is he angry? “Daughter,” he mumbles softly, closing his eyes again. I lean over quickly to check his shallow, even breaths, wondering if the shock was too much. He is just delirious from the fever, I decide, touching his forehead. He will not even remember what I told him. But at least he knows. I lie back down beside him, holding him tight. Whatever happens now, he knows. I drift off to sleep once more.

Sometime later, I blink my eyes open, feeling the gentle rocking of the boat and smelling the damp wood. Paul has fallen away from me and lies motionless on his side. Dammit, I swear, crawling over to him. I never should have let myself sleep. “Paul,” I whisper, touching his cheek, then his forehead. He seems cooler now, but his eyes remain closed. I roll him back toward me, lifting his head into my lap. “Paul, wake up, please.”

His eyes flutter open. “Oh, hello,” he says, half smiling.

“You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

He raises his hand to his side. “Still hurts.”

I pull back his shirt to examine the wound. Blood seeped through the gauze at some point, but he does not seem to be bleeding further now. I should redress the wound, I know, but there is nothing else to bandage it with. I let the shirt fall once more. “The bleeding seems to have stopped,” I report. “At least as far as I can see.”

He nods. “There’s something still going on inside, though. I can feel it.”

“You’re less feverish.” I try to keep the worry from my voice. “You should drink a bit more.” I reach behind me and pick up the canteen.

“I can do it,” he says, taking the bottle from me. “Not much left. Did I drink all of that?”

“Some. And I used some to bring your fever down.”

“Did you drink any?”

“Yes,” I lie, looking away.

“Marta…” He reaches up and touches my lips. I had not realized until then that they are dry and cracked with dehydration. “You need to drink, too.”

“I’m fine,” I insist. “I’ll go find some more water for us soon.” I look around the hull, which remains in perpetual semidarkness. “I wonder what time it is.”

“Dunno. Speaking of drinking, why do I smell like a distillery?”

I laugh softly. “That’s my fault. I needed something to clean out your wound. The only thing I could find was some vodka.”

“That must explain why I feel so good,” he says wryly, handing the canteen back to me. “Seriously, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You’ve saved my life twice. It seemed the least I could do.”

He does not answer but closes his eyes. I study his face, wondering if he remembers our conversation about Rachel. I consider mentioning it again, then decide against it. Instead, I reach down and pick up the photograph. “I wanted to ask you about this. I found it in your pocket when I was looking for more gauze.”

Paul half opens his eyes. “Oh, that’s a girl I had a fling with in Paris.”

“Very funny. I remember having this taken. But how do you still have it? I mean, with the crash and all…”

“Would you believe they found that on me when I was rescued? I was unconscious, practically naked, no identification whatsoever. Seems that was the only thing that made it.”

“But how…?”

“Medic told me I was holding it. Clenching it so hard they could barely pry it from my hand.” He looks away. “I guess I must have been looking at it when the plane went down.”

A lump forms in my throat. “And all this time…”

“I’ve carried it with me. Figured it was my lucky charm, the reason I survived.” His voice is strong and clear. “I know I’m crazy. It’s two years later and I’m still carrying a torch for a girl who’s with someone else.” I wonder again whether he remembers our conversation from the previous night, if he understands that I married Simon because of Rachel. He continues, “I mean, I’m shot and lying in the bottom of a ship with no doctors, no painkillers…”